Ask Ezio!
by iguanablogger
Summary: EXPIRED. Thank you all for your votes and questions! A sequel, Ask Altair, has already been posted. Visit iguanablogger's profile to find the new fiction letter and get crank out some questions!
1. Forward

Hey everyone!

Before we get to the actual column, I'd like to lay down some guidelines.

1) This is not only an advice column. Feel free to ask Ezio anything you want! However, for the sake of our audience, please try to keep your questions G-rated. Thank you.

2) While this is primarily a column pertaining to Ezio, questions to other characters are permitted.

3) Please date your questions using the Assassin's Creed Timeline. An exact date is preferable (ex: 1478. You can put this along with today's date at the top of your question), but just the game title would be fine.

4) It's optional, but we'd prefer it if you signed your questions personally.

**5) Concerning pairings: tread lightly! **

6) Replies to questions will come once a week, usually on Sunday. In most cases, only one question will be answered per week.

7) Have fun!

We look forward to receiving your letters!


	2. One: Foreign Language

October 12th, 1506

**Phoebe asks:**

** "Dear Ezio,**

** What other languages do you know and did you learn them all for different girls?" **

Phoebe,

Before I reply, I would like to point out that I do not yet fully understand this object before me called a 'keyboard'. It is quite confusing, as the words appear even though I have not written them down with ink or coal. Please forgive my naivety.

Now, for your question; as you may know, my brother Federico instructed me in the French language when I was a young man. And yes, I used it to charm a foreign lady- if you'd seen her, you'd understand. But French is not the only language I've used to woo beautiful girls.

I must've been…Twenty-two, maybe Twenty-three. I had been working for Antonio and his thieves when I met the most fetching light-skinned woman I had ever seen. She was easy to notice, with her long, sunset colored hair. The only other lady I'd seen with curls that color was Caterina Sforza, who not only spoke Italian, but was far beyond my league at the time.

As soon as I saw this wondrous maiden, I needed to know her name. However I was quite surprised to receive a blank stare when I asked for it.

"What's wrong?" I remember saying, "Can't you speak Italian?"

And then she said something that sounded like, "I don't countryside."

It was confusing to say the least.

All other communication failed after that. I kept my eyes on her for a few days, but she was rather good at avoiding me. I felt if she would just tell me her native language, perhaps I would have a chance. Although even when I did hear it (eavesdropping, I must admit), I could not recognize it. At first I assumed it was French, but that was a notion soon dismissed.

She was speaking with a merchant, I believe. Once she left, I approached him and asked, out of curiosity, what language they had conversed in.

"That was English," he informed me.

And so I was set in my quest to learn English.

First I brought my epiphany to Leonardo da Vinci, my closest friend. He was quite skeptical but, fortunately for me, spoke English fluently. He could not imagine a practical use for it at the moment, but I successfully persuaded him to teach me anyway.

As it happens, I would like to add that I have very recently used English in my work as Master of the Brotherhood. I have several pupils in the city of London now, and I have written each of them English identification, as well as taught them basic phrases. I would say they are well prepared.

Back to the story, however. After about three weeks of non-stop English, I mastered the language. During the course of those weeks I tried to gain my crush's attention. Sometimes I succeeded, and was able to show off my brilliant bilingual skills.

I remember vividly that after I delivered a nice compliment, she tried to hit me. Later I repeated what I'd said Leonardo, and he burst out laughing. He translated it to me as:

"Soothe me, miss, your smell is lumpy this earning."

It is important to note that Assassins do not blush easily. That said, I think I blushed.

But the point of the story is that I did in fact learn to speak English, though to this day Leonardo tells me my accent is horrendous. (By the way, by the time I had become completely fluent, I discovered the woman whose name I'll never know had already left Italy. She was only coming to visit a relative.)

I have since learned that becoming educated in a language solely to impress a member of the opposite sex is a waste of time and dignity.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore.


	3. Two: Biggest Prank

October 16th, 1506

**Joana****asks:**

"**Dear Ezio,**

**What was your greatest prank?" **

Joana,

This question has been a long time in coming, and I must admit it brings quite bittersweet memories. As a young boy, I was guilty of nearly every practical joke in the country. The only person I can think of who was more mischievous was my older brother, Federico. And while often our pranks were pulled separately, the greatest shenanigan ever wrought upon my poor family was committed by the two of us, in unison.

The year was 1473. As a reward for saving his bank from what would have been an insurmountable loss, Lorenzo de'Medici ordered a new palazzo built for my father. It was completed later that year, in one of the warmer months.

I was fourteen at the time, Federico seventeen. The details are all coming back to me now…

On the eve of its completion, my father threw a banquet inside the new palazzo. Lorenzo himself was invited, along with several of Florence's most prosperous bankers.

As that day had been a stifling one, it was natural to have a large variety of refreshments open. I remember entering the kitchen to see my mother emptying several different wine bottles into a set of wide bowls. When I asked, she explained to me that she planned to have two tables, flanking the palazzo's center in a square formation, two filled with drinks and the others heaped with food.

My mother had a knack for catering.

Anyhow, a few hours later I happened upon my older brother in the streets. He seemed surprised when I told him about the banquet, but then he began to smile.

"What's so funny?" I asked him.

"Tartaruga," He shook his head, "Are you really that slow?"

It was then he told me to follow him, only he wouldn't say where to. Frowning, I did as he said, and we came upon the family doctor.

(I might add he was not specifically _our_doctor. Federico and I came to him when I broke my leg as a child, and we never found a more loyal healer)

I continued to watch, positively baffled, as Federico purchased two pouchfuls of a heavy gray powder. On the walk back home, he answered each of my questions with a silent grin. Only when we were safely cocooned in his room did he inform me of his scheme.

The powder was an average itching agent. However, Federico explained, when mixed with certain fruit juices, it acting as a dye. Only instead of dying clothing or cloth, it colored skin. According to my older brother, this powder would turn a man's face blue if inserted into wine. And if this wine happened to be at a classy banquet held at the newly completed Palazzo Auditore, well…

Now, as an aged individual, I see it was an immature and ridiculous thing to do, not even to mention disrespectful.

However, as a teenager, I must admit the occasion was too glorious to pass up.

I volunteered to take the bags down to the kitchen. When Mother wasn't watching, I slipped a small dose into each bowl and then disposed of the empty satchels. By the time my mother had turned around, I was innocently stirring the refreshments with a wooden spoon.

I will never forget that night.

My father was nervous when the guests began to arrive, and he was not a fretful man. Federico and I were eager to help serve in any way we could, as Mother was rather preoccupied with our younger siblings (Petruccio was ill and Claudia in a rage).

Once all the important accountants had appeared, Father called for attention. I do not recall the specifics of what he said, but it ended with everyone getting something to eat and drink, then there would be a speech.

Federico and I watched from the palazzo's shadows as our visitors tipped their heads back and swallowed our poison. When we emerged, our father immediately snatched us.

My first thought was that we had been found out. But as soon as his hands grasped our shoulders, we heard his laugh. That was one of the times I'd seen him at his happiest.

He told us the banquet was an enormous success, and it was immensely kind of us to help our mother prepare it. It was then he offered us each a glass of wine, as a special treat for that day (Federico and I had been on alcohol probation at that time after a different joke, which I am not discussing here, went wrong).

Federico managed to decline on both our behalves, and assured Father that we understood how much this dinner meant to him, and how much hinged on its well-being.

For the longest time, nothing happened. I was afraid Federico would become angry with me, shout at me for failing in some spectacular fashion.

But, around an hour after the banquet began, we received results.

Lorenzo, a young man of twenty-four at the time, approached the head of the plaza, still holding a glass of wine. He opened his speech with a few kind words to my mother and her skills as a baker. Afterwards, he spoke of his relationship with my family as well as other things. But it was the moment his jaw snapped shut that I remember the clearest.

The attention in the room shifted dramatically to Lorenzo's chief advisor, whose face had turned an impressive shade of blueberry. When he realized everyone was staring at him, the man began to blush, which only made it a more interesting spectacle.

"W-What?" Was the simple way he put it.

Just then, several more bankers began to heat up. One turned purple, another a brilliant fuchsia. As it happened, (and Federico and I hadn't counted on this) one of the accountants had some sort of reaction to the powder, and began to vomit. Soon someone else became sick, simply from the sight of another's bile. Before long everyone's face held a different pallor, including our father's; although I couldn't help but feel then that the deep red burning on his cheeks had little to do with the chemical's effect.

Our family managed to recover politically, desperately issuing apologies and the like. A few days later Lorenzo himself came to congratulate us on a prank well executed. But Father's rage was not as easily diffused.

My brother and I were imprisoned in our rooms for three months. We were allowed to come downstairs only for meals, and for a single visitor weekly.

However I would say it was worth it.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	4. Three: Time Travel

October 23rd, 1508

**Ce-ce****DelCielo****asks:**

** "Dear Ezio,**

** If you could go anywhere during any time ever to do anything you wanted with no consequence whatsoever, where would you go, what would you do, and why would you do it.**

** Also, would you rather walk around Florence with absolutely nothing on, or eat something that came out of the rear end of a horse?" **

Ce-ce,

If I could travel to any point in time and see anyone, I would visit the wise grand Assassin, Altair ibn La'Ahad, in his fortress at Masyaf. If I could truly speak with him, without any consequence to the future, I would ask him about his writings, about the Codex. Altair seems to be the only being I have ever heard of who lived with direct access to the Apple. I have experienced that briefly; in my own time, and to share it with one who has felt the same would be incredible.

Now that I am managing my own Order, I would also inquire as to his leadership habits. My close advisor, Niccolo Machiavelli, claims I am too soft a teacher. But I believe that educating someone through force is no way to earn their trust. If anyone knows the answer to such a dispute, it must be Altair.

When I first heard your question, it occurred to me to answer with the spring of 1476. If I had known then what I know now, my family would never have suffered such a painful demise.

But when I consider it, I realize I have already accepted their passing. If the events had not transpired the way they had, I would never have become who I am today: an icon to the lost and betrayed, and a hero to the downtrodden. Without my family's execution, the Assassin Order would never have been dusted off and brought into the light. The Borgia would have ruled until God only knows how long, consuming innocent lives as fuel. In the end, I am glad that I am the one to oppose them.

In response to your other question; I would select the former. I am nothing Firenze has not seen before. And I prefer to lose my dignity over my tongue, which, had I chosen the latter, I would have been forced to slice out with my own blades.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	5. Four: Probation

October 30th, 1506

**Jacob asks: **

"**Dear Ezio,**

**Reading your previous response got me interested about you and Federico's temporary alcoholic probation. What did you two do? I bet it's an interesting story. I'd really like to hear it." **

Jacob,

The story is a lot less complicated than I may have represented it, though it is quite embarrassing. You may have noted I was not interested in discussing it earlier. Frankly, I'm a bit surprised my father only imposed one prohibition on me. Looking back, I possessed an incredible amount of freedoms I took for granted.

It was…let me think. Perhaps June 1473. In honor of my fourteenth birthday, Federico took me on an outing.

Now, I was quite an active teenager (ask the women of Firenze). But whenever I was with him, Federico tended to act…reserved. We never did anything particularly exciting until after that summer evening thirty-three years ago.

I remember, the night started out like any other. Since the hours of daylight had expanded, Federico and I had taken to relaxing outdoors during the later hours, at some annoyance to my mother. I complained to Federico about how he always seemed to hide his private life from me.

He looked at me strangely and said something like, "You are not old enough to handle my private life, baby brother."

I assured him that fourteen was plenty old. As it was June, I hardly counted myself as a thirteen-year-old still. And then he smiled at me and told me that since I was such a grownup, he would bring me with him tonight.

As we walked, Federico informed me that a few of Father's associates worked at the establishment we were going to. I remember being disappointed. Most of Father's co-workers were round, beady-eyed men, far more interested in my studies than me as a person. I never liked any of them, and when my family was destroyed they abandoned us.

Finally we approached the place. Federico treated it like some grand palace, but it was rather seedy looking to me. The building was clearly old, and not well built. Once inside, my older brother led me to a booth and we took our seats. The interior was filled with similar booths, with a long counter in the center.

"Federico, is this a tavern?" I asked.

"No, Ezio," He answered me, but before he could explain his face brightened and he said, "Ah, here she comes now!"

And that was when a beautiful girl sauntered over to our table, grinning at my brother, who grinned back. I don't particularly remember what she looked like, as most of my memories of that night are distorted and warped. But she was very beautiful, and Federico knew it.

"Auditore," She spoke to him as though I were not there. She shook her head. "I thought you were banned from this place last week!"

I frowned at Federico, but he only laughed.

"True, but I didn't come for myself."

To this day, I do not understand what he meant by that.

"Who's this?" The gorgeous woman tilted her head at me, and I lost my ability to introduce myself. Federico took the honor of revealing my name, but I felt ashamed. There I had been trying so hard to prove that I was a man, and I couldn't even find myself exchanging pleasantries.

"I'm sorry, Ezio," She told me, "But we do not allow children at this establishment."

"I am no child!" I protested deeply.

"Prove it, baby brother," Federico smiled and folded his arms on the table, "Fiorella, get little Ezio a bottle of Rose please."

While Fiorella whisked herself away, I asked him what 'Rose' was. He explained that it was a type of wine.

Soon the girl returned and placed it on the table, along with a pair of tall glasses. Federico popped open the small container and emptied it between the two cups.

I was quite excited, but also nervous. Father did not usually allow me this much alcohol at once. Whenever we had wine at home, which was often, my father would give me small amounts. He let Federico take what he pleased, but I sensed he was watching him as well. This was the first time I had ever been given my own glass of wine.

"Drink up, Ezio."

I did.

Rose was not a bad wine. It was fruity and had a tangy aftertaste, which burned my throat after I swallowed. But I managed to gulp it down and smirk victoriously at my brother, who laughed.

"That's good, _tartaruga._Let's see you down another glass."

And so Fiorella brought another bottle of Rose, and Federico and I drank that one as well. By that time I was beginning to feel tipsy, but I remember loving it. At first, Rose was too sweet, but then it began to melt against my tongue. Each swallow felt as though I were drinking nectar straight from the vine, and it was entirely invigorating.

Finally, the next bottle was finished as well.

"I think Ezio has more than proven himself," Federico told Fiorella, "Why don't we bring out something a bit stronger, eh?"

The next bottle procured was much smaller, and its label read: "Ram's Horn."

"I don't do this for just everyone, Auditore," She said, "If anything happens to the kid I'm telling your father exactly where you were when it took place."

"Fair enough."

The glass given me was tiny. At first I felt cheated, as though I were not old enough to be given a standard glass, but Federico explained that each wine had its own serving size, and this was the one recommended for Ram's Horn.

They gave me a miniscule amount, and I quickly drank it, hoping it would be more Rose.

And that is where my memories of that night end.

When I woke it was with a severe headache. I was in my own bed, back home, and I could not for the life of me remember what had transpired. Weakly, I called out for Federico.

It was my mother who approached. And she did not seem happy.

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze," Every single word was like a blow to my skull, "What in _heaven__'__s__name_were you _thinking?__" _

"Mother," I moaned, "What happened? Where's Federico?"

"Your _brother,_" When my mother became furious, she liked to accentuate random words in her sentences, "Is out _slaving__away_at your _father__'__s__bank._As he _should__be,_for what he's _done__to__you!__"_

"What happened?" I asked again.

"Ezio," She shook her head, "Do you know what day it is?"

I thought.

"_Martedi?__" _I answered tentatively.

"It's _Mercoledi,_Ezio."

I remember being quite surprised to find that I had slept through an entire day. My immediate thought was that I'd told my friend Vito that I would visit him the next morning, and I hadn't.

"Oh." I replied.

"'_Oh__'__,__" _My mother mocked, hands on her hips, "_'__Oh__'__,_he says." It was then that my father appeared on the scene.

"Has he awakened?" He asked my mother in the doorframe, then paused to look at me.

My mother turned to him, "This is your child. There is no way on _terra_that he could've descended from anyone else."

And then my father looked _proud._

But then my mother gave him a certain look that I cannot describe, because all the shouting had caused my head to stimulate a pounding sensation that made the room spin. I laid back down and pulled the thin summer quilt above my head.

"Ezio," My father drew near, "I heard you danced on a table _Lunedi_evening."

It was then I began to consider suicide.

"Oh?"

"You also apparently tried to mate with a cat."

"Oh."

I do not care to list the other things I may or may not have done that night. In the end, Federico and I were forbidden to touch any alcohol for the rest of that year.

I hope my explanation has satisfied you, Jacob. Because even as a grown man, when I relive this story, I am possessed with the urge to drive my hidden blade down my throat.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore.


	6. Five: Dating advice

November 6th, 1476

** Audre asks: **

** "Well Ezio,**

** I was wondering if you could give me some advice. There is this guy I like. I like him A LOT. I wouldn't call it love because love is a strong word. But for a 15-year-old, this is as close as you could get, I guess. Anyway, what should I do to impress this guy so that he will be with me? What would you want a girl to do to you? **

** Thanks, Ezio. I love your eyes, by the way. And I hope that doesn't come off as creepy…**

** Grazie!" **

Audre,

Please forgive me if I seem distant or blunt, but I do not believe myself in a good position to be giving advice right now. I am still coping with a tremendous amount of loss, and this question is a difficult one to answer.

The best I can do is relate to you something my father, may he rest in peace, once told me. When it became clear to him that Cristina (A girl I met in Florence) and I were involved, he gave me the following advice:

There is the long-term girl, and the short-term girl. Let me describe the short-term girl: She will seem smart, pretty, funny, and loyal. Often times, this woman will seem incredibly attractive and keeping yourself away from her will be hard. And when you _are_with her, you will be filled with an overpowering desire for more, and she will give you everything you demand. For a short while, life will seem perfect.

Then one of two things will happen; either she will break your heart, or you will break hers. Somehow, whatever spark began your relationship will vanish. Looking back, everything you shared will seem childish and strange, and you will both move on. Soon you will be only specks on each other's memories.

That is the short-term-girl. Some men are only attracted to this type of female, and cannot wrap their heads around the alternate model (which I like to believe I have found).

The long-term-girl is quite different. For one thing, her appearance is usually different. While the short-term-girl will seem alluring and exotic, the long-term-girl will often seem shy and distant. Sometimes, she will not even appear appealing. But when you speak with her, she listens. She accepts your opinion and replies with an honest answer.

You will have more in common than you realize. Neither of you will feel committed. In fact, you may only see the long-term-girl a few hours a day, and only consider her a friend. But when you sit to think about her, it will be with endearment, because she is your equal. You have a mutual feeling of respect. When the time is right, you may become intimate. Either way, you will know that the two of you have a special bond, and it will last for quite a long time.

So I suppose what you should do before you become committed is decide for yourself, Audre. Is this boy short-term or long-term? If he is long-term, you won't need to impress him. Just be yourself, and he will come to you.

As for what I look for in a woman…

I mentioned that I am in a relationship with a girl named Cristina. Now, I wouldn't call her a long-term, but we certainly have a strong connection. Cristina was there for me when I needed her the most- I cannot say that for every woman I've met.

I suppose what I look for the most is…a sense of loyalty. A sense of acceptance. I don't know, it's complicated, and not something I particularly feel like discussing.

But I love her, Cristina. Since the moment I set eyes on her. I…can't explain why. Maybe this feeling is what I look for in a girl. When just the thought of her fills me with inspiration and warmth, I can know she loves me too.

Does that make sense?

…

Figure out your own life, Audre. I'm going to have enough trouble fixing the remains of mine. What I look for in a partner is _love._I don't know what you look for.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore

PS: I do find it disturbing that you love my eyes. I have never even met you.


	7. Six: Touch That

November 12th, 1482

**Nicola asks: **

"**Dear Ezio,**

**I am an evil Templar and I've come to take over the world. What I ask is:**

**Can you touch this?**

***side steps out of frame*"**

Nicola,

Yes. Yes I can:

.com/watch?v=n0BJrqSD1cU

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore

**_(AN- for unfathomable reasons, FF has decided that it just cannot allow a complete link to youtube. that said, in order to watch the video, you need to post the above .com/watch?v+n0BJrqSD1cU into your URL and then just add youtube .com before it. I haven't got a clue why FF won't allow links.)_  
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	8. Seven: Happiest Memory

November 13th, 1498

**Stolen****Cookie****asks:**

"**Dear Ezio,**

** I am writing a very wonderful and complicated story that will probably take fifty years to write. Meaning I am not even close to finishing because I went on a trip for eleven days and came home with writer's block. I could really use some inspiration to get this lovely (yet painful) story started again. My question to you is…**

** What is your happiest memory after you became an Assassin?**

** Now I am off to go talk to myself outside for dialogue. I have weird ways of coming up with conversations.**

** Forever blabbing about nothing,**

** StolenCookie."**

Cookie,

This question is a difficult one. I cannot say I know the right answer.

For a long period of time after I became an Assassin, I felt myself incapable of having 'happy memories'. My family, my home, my innocence, were all taken from me in one day. You cannot imagine how I felt when I finally realized, as an eighteen-year-old boy, that I would be forced to kill others for the rest of my life.

But over time, the sharp agony of a murderer's burden began to dull. I know now that those I assassinate must die, and that they endanger the lives of hundreds with their actions. I didn't always know that before.

So although I struggled through a confused adulthood, the happiest memories that stood out were those in which I could feel as though nothing was wrong. As though I would not have to end someone else's life tomorrow.

I will provide an example:

One night in 1482, Dursoduro, Venice. A group of friends and I went out to a tavern that evening, celebrating some trivial occasion I do not remember.

It used to be that whenever I entered a tavern and began to drink, I would feel guilty. My heart would start to ache again for all that I've lost, and suddenly my glass would be filling with wine over and over again. But that night I was not alone.

Rosa, a close friend of mine, was there. When she started to pour the beer, she noticed the look on my face. The heartache was starting up, and I did not care for it. And yet it was something I could not help. She took me aside and told me to stop thinking about matters I could not change. She explained to me that the best thing I could do for my family was to enjoy myself again. I knew she was right.

And that night, a large piece of my heart was mended. The wine and beer I drank then were not of the lonely sort I had always consumed previously, but spirits of recovery and happiness.

Though my memories of that night are somewhat blurred, I can still feel that bubbly mirth. I could forget that I was an Assassin, and at some point we crossed a line. We were no longer a band of criminals trying to escape our fates- we were a group of friends getting drunk.

We were _normal._

I think that memory, despite being embarrassing and blunt, is probably one of my most adored. Because it was then that I learned to let go. I felt this sense of freedom that I still carry with me today.

I realize that my choice may seem odd to some. I'm sure others would pick a memory shared with their lover, or a time they acquired a large sum of money. But I believe that the one true thing that brings us happiness is freedom. And I was certainly free that night.

Cookie, I hope this has helped you. I wish you good fortune in your writings (I have seen Leonardo with writer's block. It is not a pretty matter), and may inspiration come to you in time.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore.


	9. Eight: Ugly

November 20th, 1515

**Someone who doesn't want to die asks: **

"**Dearly beloved Ezio,**

** If I pull a prank on you, like… If I told you I know a beautiful lady and gave you the wrong address on purpose and you meet the most hideous person on earth… Would you assassinate me?"**

Friend,

I would like to thank you for the question; it gave me a good laugh. In fact, it reminds me of a rather amusing story…

The year was 1482. I was a young, brash, and arrogant man working for the great banker, Lorenzo the Magnificent. Dio, it feels like a thousand years ago…

Sometime in the late spring, I was sifting through my usual assignments when I received a letter that stood out. It was from Lorenzo, and it was another contract, but the pay was far lower than usual.

Now, I was quite a wealthy man. But while Lorenzo often gave me more than what was due, I couldn't resist wondering why he would cut me short. I opened the envelope, and inside was a note explaining his request.

A dignitary from Milano was to arrive within the next few days, and her life was in danger. The body of the letter informed me of her predicament, which I no longer remember, nor care for (and I didn't at the time, either). The last part told me more of her appearance and personality.

You must understand- Lorenzo had never met this woman. What he told me he learned by exchanging letters and hearsay. And the Medici had never lied to me before, so I believed him. And he believed her to be the most extraordinary lady…

His words were something like… 'though her beauty be vast, Ezio, you must be wary of her sharp tongue', or 'I have not met her in person, but her writings assure me that she is quite athletic and strong. She will not be pushed lightly.' and other such ramblings.

So naturally, I was anticipating her arrival.

Finally, the day came. I went to meet her at the docks, so

curious was I. She was meant to stay for a couple of nights, attending meetings and other political businesses, and as I watched the passengers leave her boat I pondered how I would court her. I had always had a soft spot for women of power.

But I remember the disappointment when she did not appear. I waited almost an hour after the boat was emptied, and yet the lady I had read so much about was not present. I was confused and fearful- if I could not find her soon, surely her enemies would strike.

And so eventually I approached the dockworkers and asked openly. They snickered when I mentioned her name.

"She is taking the tour of Venezia with the rest of the ambasciatori." They told me.

When I left the pier I could have sworn I heard them laughing.

Before long I had caught up with her group, but the crowd was dense. Distinguishing her from the rabble took some time, but that later proved to be the least of my problems.

You see…when I saw this woman's face with my own eyes, my mouth gaped like those of the fishes I'd passed on my way there. Before I did anything too brash, I called out for her, just to be certain. And sure enough, she responded.

"You must be the associate Lorenzo mentioned," She smiled at me, "I have been looking forward to meeting you."

"Si," I said, because I could not conjure anything else.

"Well then, I assume you will lead me to your place of choosing? I would rather not stand out in the open."

"Si."

"We shall depart now, yes?"

"Si."

You cannot understand.

The woman was _hideous._

To this day, I have never seen a female so ugly. I still have a picture of her in my mind: oily black hair that resembled a coil of thin wires, eyes as small and dark as a cockroach's, a long mouth with far too much chin. Pimples, pustules, and moles alike toyed with the skin of her face, rendering it a bleeding battleground upon which I could imagine no man intruding (pardon my bluntness).

In all honesty, she was painful to look at. And that's exactly what I'd sworn to my friend Lorenzo that I would do for three straight days.

(At some point, I asked her why she always described herself as someone she was not. She laughed at me and explained that since half of her contacts would never meet her, why not let them believe she was a gorgeous donna?)

Now, my friend, I am retired. I have married a beautiful lady, and she has borne me two wonderful children. We live in peace, and I have found much contentment in my new line of work as a grape farmer.

But if you would make me spend one more day with my eyes glued to that nauseating wretch, I would be forced to injure you.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	10. Nine: Eagle Vision

November 27th, 1485.

**Shoham****Bagno****asks:**

** "Dear Ezio,**

** I had some questions in mind I hope you won't mind answering. I always wondered when it was that you realized you can use the ability of Eagle Vision, and what matters you were under at the time. **

** Also, when was the first time you performed the leap of faith? Does it have any connection with the first subject I asked you about?**

** I am very curious to hear your answers. Thanks!**

** PS- I know my last name sounds Italian, but it happens to be in some other European language. Please don't jump into conclusions."**

Shoham,

I did not jump to any conclusions. I do not mean any offense, but "bagno" would be a terrible last name for a lady. And I do believe your first name dispels any illusion of Italian heritage.

Eagle Vision… I never thought to call it that. Yet I suppose it is accurate- my eyes have always been an odd golden color. I cannot properly explain what my Vision is. Half of the sensation is sight, while the other is some basic instinct.

"The ability to sense another's intention." My father once defined it as such. Yet he told me he did not have the same Sight as I do, and I never did find out how he understood how I felt.

I first began to see intentions when I was nine years old, and it was a terrifying experience. I was playing with a group of friends when a former associate of mine, Vieri de'Pazzi, approached. He called my name, but when I looked up at him all I saw was a plume of red light.

As you can no doubt imagine, I responded with panic.

Not only that, but I could not find any way to 'deactivate' my Vision. My friends, whose words I could not hear, appeared as blue beacons. Everything else was dark and frightening.

I yelled at Vieri to stay away from me, and then I ran. Later, I was very unhappy about that decision. It was probably the only time I ran from Vieri because I was scared.

But I can remember every detail of that moment. My feet were beyond my control, and my heart pounded in my ears. Everything was black and frightening, and I began to cry out for my parents. Inevitably, I rammed into someone- a man carrying a light scarlet hue.

The red shade gripped my shoulders tightly, which only caused my terror to intensify. I remember shrieking, bucking- anything to get away. I don't believe I've ever felt a fear so forceful.

Somehow, the shadow was able to bring me to my father, who was a comforting yet bold blue stripe. I don't know how I recognized him amongst the other blue lights of my family, but I ran to him and cried.

It was when the tears began to role down my cheeks that my sight reverted to normal. I didn't know how to explain to him what had happened to me. And more than anything, I was afraid my friends would find out.

When I returned to my friends the next day, they told me what happened after I ran off. They informed me that Vieri had looked just as petrified as I had, because when I turned it was not the soft brown eyes of a child he saw, but the glistening orbs of a monster.

I do not know if this part is true, but I have been told that while I use my "Eagle Vision", my eyes take on an ethereal glow. I do not like to dwell on this thought, because the reality of it chills me to the bone.

Along the course of many years, I began to control my Sight. What puzzles me is that none of my siblings had it. I asked my father, but he seemed to know little more than me. He told me my great-grandfather also had the Eagle's eye.

I wish I could tell you more. But the golden color of my eyes is just as much a mystery to me as it is to you.

As for your second question- what a memorable experience! My first leap of faith took place on the fourteenth of February 1473, the day before my brother Federico's birthday.

It began as a race: the rooftops were slippery that day, due to ice. I complained to him about it, and he responded by insulting my abilities as a free runner. Somehow our argument devolved into a competition, which ended on with him victorious on the peak of Santa Trinita's (a church near the house where I grew up) bell tower.

After a good while's rest and banter, I asked him how he intended to get us down. He only grinned at me and pointed to a snow-dusted hay pile several feet below.

I will admit- I called him insane. I called him a great deal of things before he convinced me to try what he called a 'leap of faith'. I told him I was not prepared to lose everything for 'faith', but he seemed so confident… So in the end, I agreed.

He went first. My jaw dropped as I watched him flip through the air so gracefully. Federico landed perfectly, as though he'd practiced this move hundreds of times. After a moment, he popped out of the hayloft and beckoned me with a friendly shout.

I still remember the cold nip in my cheeks and the wind in my hair as I stared down at that hay pile. To this day, I believe my stomach still rests on Santa Trinita's tower, staring down at the ground too far below. My heart was throwing itself against the walls of my chest as though it had left something dreadfully important back home.

"Make eye-contact!" Federico encouraged me, "And remember to flip! Don't land head-first!"

Uttering a quiet prayer to God in case I did not live, I propelled myself from the ledge.

For about two seconds, I forgot to flip. I was too busy marveling at the fact that I was _flying._I was soaring through the air majestically screaming with exhilaration. Then I remembered to twist my body so that my behind would make contact with the ground first.

Unfortunately, Federico did not instruct me on _how_to flip, so instead of landing gracefully, I landed like a fish. And I sported a broken arm as well.

But from that day forth I was no longer afraid. Well, I was nervous, I'll admit- but I was not scared. I spent the rest of that year perfecting the leap, until I was better than even Federico himself.

I hope my answers have satisfied you, signora Bagno. Thank you for the letter.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore.


	11. Ten: Afraid

December 4th, 1511

**Ren****asks:**

** "Dear Ezio,**

** When was the last time you were afraid of something? I mean, being a fearless Assassin and all, but how do you deal with them?"**

Ren,

I regret to inform you that I am neither as heroic nor brave as the icon I have been represented by recently.

You see, for my purposes there may as well be two copies of Ezio Auditore patrolling Constantinople. The first copy is a very dependable man whose only fear is that one day he will grow old and become of no use to his Order. He does not fear death, he does not fear pain, and he does not fear fear itself. Nothing can shake the resolve of this strong vigilante- he runs the city of Constantinople with a firm, yet open hand. This is the Ezio that most of my students (and questioners) seek advice from.

I can only assume this question was meant for the second Auditore. That is the copy that very few people can say they truly know. He is middle-aged man who is quite conscious of the fact that he has already passed the age of fifty, and fifty-three is looming on the horizon. He is the man who woke up this morning wondering where he was, and why his bed smelled like smoke. He is the man who, the very moment he stepped into a room, forgot the reason he did so.

And this Ezio is afraid of so many things daily he cannot possibly recall all of them.

That being said, I suppose the last time I truly experienced fear was a few hours ago, just a few paces from the desk I write at now. My fellow Assassin and very good friend, Yusuf Tazim, was showing me a few more of his special "bomb-crafting" techniques. He had splayed out on the table the three prime ingredients in the explosive: an impact shell (a very brittle casing that protects the bomb), a pouch of Arabian gunpowder (Standard explosive material), and a vial of Datura (a lethal poison).

"Now, assemble the ingredients carefully," Yusuf had told me.

I nodded and tried to remember how to construct a bomb. But believe me when I tell you this is not something we sit around and ponder back in Italia. I stared at these foreign bags of danger like a child stares at a sword. I had not a clue how to proceed.

But I wasn't about to let Yusuf know that. He isn't…how to put it… A very mature man. He thinks me an incompetent Italian buffoon permanently jammed in the fifteenth century. So, admitting weakness to Yusuf was clearly not an option.

My hands wandered from component to component; weighing the bag of gunpowder, tracing the fine glass finish on the Datura vial. I carefully opened the impact shell and sifted in the powder, which filled the air with the stench of smoke and eggs. Then, I removed the stopper in the Datura vial and let a few clear drops fall into the mix. From the corner of my eye I watched Yusuf stroke his beard, following my progress intently.

Finally, I closed the casing and turned to my mentor with a smile.

Yusuf returned my gesture and moved to take the bomb from my hands. But somehow during the transaction he slipped, and the explosive crashed to the ground loudly.

That was when I began to feel afraid. If it wasn't the noise that shocked me, it was certainly the thought that I had just released a cloud of life-threatening gas upon my bureau.

I coughed into my sleeve and tried to clear the smoke with my other arm. It thinned faster than I expected, but my stomach did another flip when I saw Yusuf clutching at his throat.

My friend exclaimed something frantically in Turkish as he fell to the floor in a heap. I was at his side immediately, quickly becoming overcome with the fear that I had done something terrible.

"Yusuf!" I had yelled, eyes wide.

Yusuf let out a long sigh and went limp.

It was then I first suspected something was afoot.

I became certain something was afoot when a few moments later, Yusuf began to shake with laughter. He was absolutely rolling with hysteria by the time I agreed to help him to his feet.

"You should have seen the look on your face!"

When he had recovered, Yusuf explained to me that I had only inserted the miniscule dosage into the bomb. That little Datura would, at best, upset a Byzantine stomach. He had only _pretended_to be incapacitated. _I_should stop being such a _Florentine__grouch._

Yet I did feel true fear for his life in those few moments. I am certain the hero Ezio Auditore would never have doubted in his companion's safety. In fact, I'm sure he would have laughed at a prank well played.

Middle-Aged Ezio would like to sit down at his desk and answer his letters.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	12. Eleven: Proposal

December 7th, 1520

**Coco asks: **

"**Dear Ezio,**

**My question is how did you propose to your wife? I'm curious because of your romantic reputation. Do you enjoy being married?"**

Coco,

Ah, now this is an excellent story. I proposed to Sofia Sartor on the eighteenth of August, 1512. However, if any of you out there are familiar with my wife, you will know that I did not propose outright. What better way to propose to a puzzle-loving librarian than through a complex riddle?

I will admit, part of the reason I constructed this mystery was because earlier that year I had been outlawed by the Sultan of Constantinople due to events I am not describing now. Sofia's name was blameless, but the Sultan was not comfortable with her in his city. He knew she and I were involved. I also understood that I was growing old, and after the death of my dear friend Yusuf, I began to plan my retirement. I'd set my eye on a lovely little villa near Firenze that I would spend my days in, and it made sense to take Sofia along. She was no longer so welcome in Konstantiniyye.

But I digress. Sofia's journey began at her bookshop. On her desk, I had planted two items: A silver eagle statuette, and a small cross. On the cross the numbers one, three, four, and eight were imprinted.

After leaving her bookshop, I proceeded to Galata Tower. It was there I dropped off the next set of clues: a small sketch of John the Baptist I'd received back in Italia, a clay model of the goddess Sophia (A Greek merchant had imposed it on me the year before. I had no use for it.), and a blank sheet of paper. To the average man, these items would seem like a random collection of rubbish, Sofia would easily find their deeper meanings…

My plan came to a head at Ayasofya. In 1511, Sofia helped me uncover several ancient texts that the Polo family had hidden in Constantinople. For this special occasion, I'd had a replica Polo book made- only all the pages inside were blank. I flipped open the cover and inscribed two words on the opening page: look up. Then I turned the page and wrote two more: climb it.

Now finished with the old tome, I set it near the Hagia Sophia in a place where I knew my lovely librarian would find it. Using another sheet of blank paper, I skillfully drew an arrow pointing to the left. I then climbed up the church's wall until I sat on the roof, directly above the book. Using resin from one of my sticky pouches, I stuck parchment's tip to the rooftop. It flapped in the wind like a flag.

Once finished with that, I headed to the left. I erected a ladder that led from the street to the roof, then cleared the area of any wandering watchmen. I knew by that time there was a good chance Sofia had discovered my trail.

Using my boot, I drew a line in the dirt indicating the wall behind me. I approached the wall and pulled three items from my pockets. A small tin, and two gold rings. I placed the rings inside the tin and set it down on the floor. I stood up, brushed off my hands, and found a suitable spot in which to hide and wait…

It didn't take Sofia long to appear. And I was relieved to hear the smile in her voice when she called for me to show myself. When I climbed down from my perch, she held the rings in her extended palm. I will never forget the smug look on her face when she said yes. Mia Sofia…

It may be tiring sometimes, but I believe I do enjoy being married. My family is my home, and I will always love them. Sofia is a wonderful wife and an even better mother- though she is often too sweet on the children.

And I think Marcello, though only seven, is beginning to look like me.

Forgive me if this letter seems somewhat scattered, Coco, but Flavia, my daughter, has commenced crying again. Even in my study, the wailing is unbearably loud… And Sofia will have my head if I don't see to her.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	13. Twelve: Long Hair

December 11th, 1476

**Scott****asks:**

** "Dear Ezio,**

** Why did you decide to grow your hair out?" **

Scott,

Well, this is a certainly a break from the usual question. Pardon my bitterness, but I am quite surprised that you didn't elect to ask how I am "coping" with my family's demise, or whether or not I miss my love, Cristina. Here is a question, though somewhat pointed, that I am happy to answer.

As amazing as it might seem, growing my hair longer was not my choice. The decision was the result of my trip to the local barber about five years ago.

I was twelve years old. My father had an important dinner to attend, and the invitation extended to his family. The evening beforehand, we, my brother and I, were taken to a parlor to receive, as our mother put it, "grooming".

They set to work on Federico first. There was once a time when my older brother had a length of hair tied behind him as well, you should know. I thought quite a bit of it, but my mother did not agree. She believed that long hair was for women, and if a man wanted to grow his out he should take proper care of it (as my father did, she pointed out). Federico argued, but in the end my mother won out (this was because Federico was only using the ponytail to draw girls to his pene, and Mother knew it).

I remembered feeling antsy as I took a seat in the parlor's lounge. Federico entered the work area first, determined not to show fear. He was in there for a long time, and I heard many different and ambiguous sounds drift from the room during his appointment. One was the unmistakable nipping of scissors, another the sloshing of water or some other liquid substance. I hid behind my copy Boccaccio's poems, a book that had been offered to me while I waited. But it was dull, and my apparent fate was not.

Finally, Federico emerged. My mother immediately stood, hands pressed to her coloring cheeks. She began to rave about how much more _civilized_he looked, but I hardly saw a difference. All I noticed was that they had lopped off his ponytail and combed the spiky edges that now made up his hair flat. He was still Federico to me.

It didn't take Mother long to shove me into the beautician's puffy chair. She was so impressed with their work on my older brother, she instructed them to give me almost the exact same treatment.

"His skin tone is a bit darker, however, so you must take care to…"

I feared they would lather me in makeup after I heard that statement.

But in the end, I have to give the barbers the credit due them. I admit to being comfortable while they worked on me, first wetting my mess of dark hair, then cutting it with as little pain as possible. One of them had a sweet smelling cream, which he rubbed on my face very soothingly. A significant amount of the soap was also smoothed onto my hands and wrists, ensuring that I gave off a wonderfully appealing aroma by the time they were finished.

One of the beauticians engaged me in small talk while another whacked off my hair from behind rather inconspicuously. They did a good job of distracting me- I hardly remember anything odd about the procedure. It was over before I'd known it had begun.

However when I left the room to meet my family, my mother's reaction was…less than desirable. Instead of impressed remarks and praise, Mother's expression was akin to horror.

I can still recall the way her eyes widened… She screamed at the barbers so loudly I was certain all of Firenze could hear her. Federico took one look at me and seemed to burst with laughter. I was so confused- I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about until my tired, yet furious mother handed me a mirror.

It was certainly a site to behold. My bangs, my beautiful and illustrious sweeping brown locks, had been snipped at the roots. The long, messily tied tail that dragged down my shoulders had been chopped, and the back of my scalp now resembled that of a porcupine's. Where Federico had exited beautiful and glamorous, I had somehow managed to leave more disheveled than I entered.

I did smell delicious, though.

From that point on I did not see another barber. My mother absolutely forbade it, and if my hair was becoming too hard to manage she trimmed it with a pair of knitting shears. Although most of my family agreed as I grew that the ponytail suited me, I occasionally miss the pampering of the salon. Even now, five years later, my hair has not fully grown back. It is a decent length, though. And I admit, I prefer it long.

I suppose in the end, it's just better not to upset the delicate balance between my scalp and the rest of my body. My hair and I enjoy a peaceful coexistence, where I allow it to run freely in the wind, and it serves me by staying tucked in the back of my hood in a neat wad. My bangs have, thankfully, recovered.

Thank you again, Scott, for the interesting and strangely uncommon question.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	14. Thirteen: Retired

December 14th, 1523

**Maya****asks:**

** "Dear Ezio,**

** How do you feel now that you live out in the countryside with Sofia? Do you like not having to kill anyone anymore, to simply live with Flavia and Marcello and your wife in peace? Or do you miss the thrill of being an Assassin sometimes?"**

Maya,

I must admit, the confines of age are tiring. Over the past decade I have consciously felt my body's strength ebbing away to the point where even lifting Flavia into my arms is a challenge (not that the girl hasn't been gaining weight). And there are days where I will emerge from my study, ink splattered, and wonder what happened to that fiery young man who could traverse the entire scope of Venezia in less than an hour.

But it is only now that I have taken the time to sit down that I realize what I have been missing. I have noticed the way Sofia's eyes grow round when she speaks to our children, the way she is always smiling at them; but they cannot see it. I have noticed the pensive frown Marcello wears when he is thinking deeply, and that I've carried the same expression for the past twenty years. I have noticed the drawings neatly folded in a pile near my bed, with Flavia's signature in large letters. It has been forty-seven years since the deaths of my father and brothers.

That is a very long time.

Despite fate's many attempts on my life, I have survived, and I have found my new family. The aching, pulsing wound I nursed for four decades has finally closed, and my doctors are two very small bambini. Just being near them… It makes the pain of those past years worth it.

Do I like not having to kill anymore? Yes. Yes, I very much like not having to kill anymore. As I have said all my days: I did not choose this life. And now…Now that I am finally finished with it all and destiny has released its grip on my shoulders, I feel free.

When I dropped my blades on Masyaf's dusty floor I made a promise. A pact between Altair, Desmond, and myself; from that day onward, I would not kill. Not another man would fall to the ground with my blade in his throat. No more. For the first time in my life, I resisted my fate.

And I defeated it.

Even as I write this, Sofia approaches. She believes I spend too much time in this room- but I am afraid to say that even if my body is tired, my mind still wonders… If I am truly too old to explore this world physically, then nothing should stop me from putting my thoughts to paper. And perhaps they will do my children some good one day, far in the future.

I have not told my bambini of their heritage, and I doubt I ever shall. The life of an Assassin is one of pain and suffering…I would not wish it upon anyone. The Brotherhood will survive through Machiavelli and myself, for however much longer I am here. But it would break my heart to see one of my descendants wearing the robes of an Assassin once more.

No, the Auditore have contributed enough to this struggle. I need not add my own children to our sacrifice.

As for missing the thrill… I believe I have experienced enough thrill to abide several lifetimes, let alone the next decade or so. Now the thrill rests with raising my son and daughter to maturity. I take great comfort in knowing they will not reach it the way I did.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	15. Fourteen: Lady Fan

December 18th, 1515

**Anonymous ****asks:**

** "Mister Auditore,**

**I must first say what an honour this is. I'm not sure if you realise this, but your name is as much a legend as the great Altair's, in western circles, at least.**

** And after all I've been hearing of your reputation and seen of you, I found a rather disturbing amount with a simple rifle through the local library, (you have at least a dozen stalkers on each street corner, I'm sure) I have to wonder, do women still throw themselves at you, like so many here seem eager to do, despite you being a married man?"**

Friend,

Do women still throw themselves at me…

Well, as you mentioned I am indeed happily married; although I believe I cut the handsome father look quite well. While I am certain I could have any of the girls from the surrounding villages if I wanted them, I doubt their idea of a fun evening begins with a fifty-six year old grape harvester :D (Signora Editor tells me that this symbol represents a person laughing. I have seen it used many times on the 'internet' when Signora Editor checks my 'mail').

However, if you wish to hear an interesting tale, I did once possess a rather tenacious lady fan.

The year was 1492, and I was thirty-three years old. While on a boat returning from my mission to Spain, I had somewhat of a…misunderstanding with my shipmates. I awoke the morning of our arrival in Venezia with a muddled mind.

Venice seemed unfamiliar to me at the time, though I cannot remember why. Either I had been drinking (which may very well have been the case, as sea voyages are extremely tedious for me and there is little else to look to for amusement), or I had been a little careless while arguing with a fellow passenger and his seven-foot bodyguard. Either way, I was confused when I stepped off the gangplank.

My first act was to stop a passing pedestrian on the street and ask where I was. It was a woman, yes, but I didn't process that thought at the time.

"Scusi," I'd mumbled. To be honest, I'm very surprised she stopped- I was a sight for sore eyes, haven't having shaved in several weeks, wearing the same pair of clothes I'd left Granada with, and speaking incomprehensibly, "What city is this?"

The poor thing must have pitied me. She took me aside, toward a less busy portion of the street. There she asked me to repeat my question.

I'd opened my mouth to say something, but instead my knees buckled and before I knew it, the ground beneath me was splattered with vomit.

The woman, bless her heart, called for a doctor. I still cannot say I remember much of that morning, only that my next conscious thought was of sunlight and a warm mattress.

Later, I learned that the lady had taken me to a hospital, where it was decided that I'd only suffered a short bout of ship fever, and that I'd be back on my feet within a few hours. Which, once I'd shaved, washed out my mouth a few times, and tidied my robes, I was.

But you see…that wasn't the last time we met.

Though it's impossible for me to rightly say, I think the little lady was sweet on me. While meeting with my fellow Assassins in Venice, I noticed her following me on several occasions. I also spotted her often sitting outside the apartment I'd rented for my stay. Whenever I approached her, she would flee.

Until this one day: it was the strangest thing… I was simply going about my business, when this same donna suddenly blocked my path. She seemed breathless as she spoke to me:

"Messere," She began, "Ever since I met you, I cannot stop thinking of you. I need to know you, sir."

I tried to tell her my name, but evidently she hadn't finished.

"I know, I know," She inhaled excitedly, "I am married. But you are as well- I've seen the shade on your ring finger."

I wanted to inform her that it wasn't a shadow- there truly was no ring on my left hand. But she didn't give me the chance.

"Please, come with me to my villa so that we may break free from the constraints of our society!"

At this point, I was losing faith in her sanity. I stood still for a moment, pursing my lips. She looked at me with the most vain of smiles. Then, I turned and walked away. She attempted to follow me, but I easily lost her.

And I never saw that disturbing cagna again.

I cannot say I distinctly remember any other women that have "thrown themselves at my feet" quite so literally. There were the occasional courtesans who felt they could "change" me, or the intermittent female informant who decided it was her duty to "save me from the agonizing life of an assassin". I am certain they were only interested in saving my pene, but that is just my opinion.

It is interesting to learn of my fame outside Italia. I did not think there were any in Inghilterra that knew my name, and I can easily tell you I have no fans in Spain. Francia is no friend of mine either, not after the killing of Valois' baron.

And I find it difficult, if not impossible, to believe I am renowned in Amerigo's lands, if that's what you are referring to by 'west'.

Thank you for the question, amico. And believe me, the honor is mine :D .

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	16. Fifteen: Short Hair

December 21st, 1511

**Will****asks:**

** "Dear Ezio,**

** Why did you decide to take out your hair tie and comb your hair back? Was it more practical? Just curious.**

** All due respect (and that's a LOT of respect), William." **

William,

There are many different reasons as to why I finally decided to cut my hair- however; I feel I must admit that I was not involved with the combing portion of the decision.

I will explain:

Last year, while preparing for my journey to Masyaf, it occurred to me how long my ponytail had grown. The length of coarse hair reached past my shoulder blades, and while it looked rather sharp, it was somewhat inconvenient (frankly it was embarrassing, as my sister had to place my hair into a bun to fit it behind my hood). So, before embarking on a long voyage containing many forms of transportation including, among others, a boat (which I believe I have mentioned my feelings regarding), I thought it best to remove the long whip behind my head. It would be very poor form indeed for my hair to have gotten caught in a pulley system, or some other hazard, and caused the end of me before Leandros' puttane could rest their eyes on my blades.

So, I thought, what is the best way to go about this? To me, the answer was obvious: If a man surrounded by knives wishes to cut something, he need only grab a blade and sturdy his grip. Therefore, I acquired one of my wider weapons from the armory and returned to my office. There, I neatly relinquished my hood and outer robes to my bed and went to my mirror. I undid the knot that kept my long, rough waves together and spread the hair through my fingers; it felt heavy and oily.

Chopping the strands with one fell swoop, however, proved to be much more difficult than I'd imagined. Apparently, hair is one of the strongest materials in this world. I slid the bundle before my blade and yanked- but only succeeded in tearing half the weight.

Disturbed by the image of an unevenly barbered Grand Master, I began to hack viciously at the remaining locks- cutting, slicing, ripping. By the time I had finished, the floor was covered with mounds of hair.

But I felt so much lighter… It was almost as though the tail had been dragging me down. I hadn't even noticed the distant tugging at the base of my scalp, but with its absence my neck could finally breathe again.

The top of my head, freshly cut, was quite disagreeable. I ran my hands across it, tousling the choppy ends. After a few good massages, they lay flat. According to the mirror, I had done an exceedingly nice job- one would only be able to tell I had barbered myself by noting the lack of tail swishing down my back.

Proud of my work, the first person I went to had been my sister, who was also preparing to return to Firenze at that time. I entered her home unannounced, hoping to catch her reaction firsthand.

"Ezio," She'd greeted me, "Come to wish me farewell already?"

"No, Claudia," I'd replied, "I have something to show you."

I perceived the smallest of gasps when I removed my hood (which had been incredibly easy to pull up, I might add) presented her with my back. When I turned, grinning, to see her face, her expression was almost an exact duplicate of the one my mother had worn after my brief incident with Firenze's beauty parlor.

"What happened?" She mouthed.

I began to explain why I felt my hair needed to be cut, but she interrupted me with a pained groan.

"Why did you not tell me!" Claudia fled the room, only to return a few moments later with a hairbrush. "Sit!"

Before I could protest, my little sister backed me onto her couch. She lifted several locks above my forehead before muttering disdainfully:

"I will need to fix this."

She returned with scissors, and swiftly began to snip my bangs.

"May I wonder what it is we are doing, sorella cara?" I'd asked her with raised brows.

Claudia responded by handing me a hand mirror. Nothing looked out of place until I used the mirror to view a reflection behind me that revealed the back of my scalp.

I have witnessed many jagged sights in my lifetime: Scraggly mountainsides, the roughness of freshly plucked feathers, and pelt of some quill-laden animal, to name a few. But the way my hair jutted out from the back of my head like some sort of bizarre horn absolutely astounded me.

My sister did her best, I have to give her that. She brushed the ends back, laying some of the worse flyaways flat with a thick, sweet smelling gel. In the end, she had to shorten my bangs so that she could brush them further.

"You look more handsome with them blown back, I think." She'd told me.

I was just glad not to have to wipe a sheet of oil from my forehead from that day on. I'd never found that trait of bangs to be particularly endearing. When she was done, I appeared about five years older than I was. Handsome, of course, but more gentlemanly than I'd previously seemed.

Claudia believes it suits me, though, and I'm not one to argue with her sense of fashion. Besides, wearing that bun was a tedious business, and when my long hair had been pulled down around my shoulders I felt uncomfortably feminine. It feels nice not to have a rope tied to the back of my head for a change.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	17. Sixteen: Practical Joked

December 25th, 1509

**Cassandra asks: **

** "Dear Ezio,**

** Have you ever been pranked by your apprentices?"**

Cassandra,

I would like to begin by wishing you all a merry Christmas and a happy new year. Although I do not personally celebrate it, I cannot argue with a warm holiday spirit and peace amongst men.

Now, unfortunately I have been pranked quite a few times. Picking a favorite would be difficult, so I will share some of the best stories:

I believe this one took place during the spring of 1505: I was walking down the street on my way to Isola Tiberina. Due to a large banquet at the Castel Sant Angelo that evening, I found the roads surprisingly empty of minstrels. The silence was wonderful, and very rejuvenating after along day's work.

It is my belief that my students are well aware of my disdain towards bards. When I entered the hideout that day, I was assaulted. Seven Assassins approached me, all bearing lutes, and began to sing. At first I'd chuckled good-naturedly, but after a few minutes of their following me around the bureau I began to feel anxious; their singing distressed me. I cannot really explain why it was- it just was.

The only way to escape them was to find my office door and lock it. When I finally emerged, my recruits acted dejected, as though I had deeply insulted each and every one.

Another of their shenanigans occurred just last year:

It had been a late night- the entire Brotherhood could see it. I had barely stayed awake at my desk writing well past midnight. Several dignitaries in different countries were requesting my correspondence, and the mail carrier was leaving Roma the next afternoon. I hadn't been able to find time during the week to write the letters, so it happened that I'd forced myself to draft them all in one night.

I think it was at the crack of dawn that I finally finished, my desk corner smothered with mounds of wax that once were candles. My hands fumbled to fold the papers into their respective envelopes and hand them off to my advisor, Niccolo, for delivery.

Finally, with all the work finished, I removed my robes and collapsed onto my bed, still wearing my boots.

For how long I slept, I am not certain. It was a very long time, though it didn't feel as such. A messenger claiming my sister wished to see me roused me at noon.

So, thinking it best not to keep Claudia waiting, I informed the messenger that I'd be up shortly and climbed out of bed. Without thinking, I pulled on my clothes (which I was delighted to see had been washed) and lumbered out the door.

It was marvelous day out, and so content was I with the world that I did not pay any attention to the unusual stares I attracted. Besides, I was used to the attention- although I admit I began to feel amiss when a herald halted in mid-sentence after I passed him.

Pushing my disturbed feelings to the back of my mind, I proceeded onwards to the Rosa in Fiore. I smiled at the girls as I entered, and they giggled back at me. My sister stood at the counter, reviewing that week's profits.

She greeted me with a nod, and I said: "You asked for me, Claudia?"

My sister's expression grew puzzled, "I did no such thing."

I frowned, crossing my arms.

"I received a messenger not thirty minutes ago informing me that you'd discovered something."

Claudia only shrugged and returned to her work. I turned around, frustrated by the time I'd wasted, and made to leave. But before I'd found the door, my little sister stopped me:

"Ezio, what happened to your back?"

"What about it?" I wondered as she approached, bewildered.

She stared at my robes for a moment longer, then slowly the corner of her lips rose. At first it was only a small smile, then it grew to a grin, then a snicker, then a burst of laughter; I studied this progression with keen interest.

"What exactly is so funny?"

My sister was already rushing to find a mirror. Realizing it would do me little good, she dropped the length of glass and simply grabbed a pen, still snorting out giggles.

"What?" I repeated, but she just scribbled onto a spare piece of parchment.

Curiously, I approached the counter and peered at her hasty note.

"It's written on your back with red ink," Claudia chortled.

I grimaced at the piece of paper, but couldn't help laughing at my apprentices' wit. The parchment read: _"Cesare Borgia lecca il mio cazzo."_

Cesare Borgia licks my penis.

Did I wash my robes as soon as I returned to La Isola? Yes. Did I sternly reprimand my Assassins for their childish and embarrassing behavior? Yes.

Did I feel immensely proud of them? Well… :) –my editor tells me this symbol represents a person smiling-

Those are only two instances, Cassandra. There are several more I could tell you about. But it is late, and I grow tired.

Once again, felice anno nuovo, everyone. Thank you for the questions, and I hope fortune finds you well this new year.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	18. Seventeen: Hidden Blade Accidents

December 27th, 1513

**Xtops asks: **

** "Dear Ezio,**

** This is a two-part question.**

** First part: We all know how dangerous the Hidden Blades are. How many times have you hurt yourself with them, and who did it happen?**

** Part two: What was it like using Leonardo's flying machine before and after he figured out how to make it fly?"**

Xtops,

You may find this surprising, but I have not had many outstanding injuries caused by my own blades. The design for these weapons, which my friend Leonardo da Vinci and I retrieved from a manual written by the great Mentor, Altair ibn La Ahad, is incredibly sensitive towards preventing human error.

The part of the metal that presses against my wrist is flat and smooth, almost comfortable. The blade's tip is quite sharp (I like to keep it that way), but is not placed at the right angle to prick my vein. Even if I were to bend my wrist inwards, the edge could not possibly pierce my hand. It is not designed to do so.

However, the hidden blades are not without their flaws, few though they are.

Often the blade will jam. A jam is caused by either rust in the hidden blade's cogs and wheels, or an alien object (such as gravel or dirt) interfering with its metal coils.

I was once chasing down a target of mine in Venezia when my hidden blade jammed. I'd finally caught up with the man, leapt on him, but didn't notice the lack of a 'click'. Instead of a ruptured jugular, all the man received was a knock on the back of his neck. It was frustrating event, but not a particularly harmful one.

A particularly harmful event would be the time in Roma when, with my sword and knife discarded and only a hidden blade to fend off my enemies, the little demon stopped working. Fortunately, I was able to disarm my opponents and use their weapons against them, but I paid the price with a torn shoulder muscle and a small concussion.

Speaking of harmful, Leonardo's flying machine was quite a wretched thing both before and after he fixed it. Do not misunderstand- I mean absolutely no disrespect for the inventor- but the machine is not very hospitable towards users. To stay perched on its glider bar is an act of constant balance, and one wrong move may have you tumbling to your death (one reason I consider myself too old to fly anymore).

On our first test run, I had the fortune of only being slightly injured. While drifting to the ground, I'd aimed the glider towards a canal and managed to slip into the water before the machine splintered onto the street. The truth was that I did not want to try flying again, but fate demanded it.

I assured Leonardo that I was fine, and he quickly constructed another copy of his machine. Our second test run was somewhat different… I was nervous; I tried hard not to show it. But it was my belief that when a man leapt from a tower he then proceeded to _fall. _I was not one to challenge this theory, but I had already promised Antonio (another friend of mine) and Leonardo that I would.

So I slid beneath the contraption's wings and got as best a grip I could on its support bar. And then I ran off the ramp and flew.

The experience was terrifying. Terrifying and somewhat glamorous, I must admit. I believe my stomach is still circling Venezia to this day.

But there was a very inspiring feeling up there, among the clouds. I could see all of Venice before me- all the buildings, people, canals, towers. It all looked so…_small. _I wish the flying wouldn't have been such work, or I would go back up and take a look around. When one is struggling to keep their head above the water, they do not begin to examine marine life.

Perhaps someday men will learn to fly without such labor. Hopefully balance will no longer be necessary either, it was quite a chore. If that day should come in my lifetime, I don't think I should ever leave the sky.

That view was just so…

Words fail me. I am sorry I cannot describe it, my friend, but it was a certain emotion that eludes my understanding. Maybe it's a feeling we all experience at some point in our lives.

Either way, I hope my response has satisfied you. This has been a pleasant trip amongst my memories.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	19. Eighteen: Chivalrous

December 31st, 1506

**Raving Sunshine asks:**

** "Dear the most interesting man in the world,**

** I know you don't assassinate often, but when you do, do you use a hidden blade? Yes, it was a terrible joke. I am so sorry. Anyway, now to my real question! Have you ever gotten into a fight with a woman? And not a verbal fight, but I mean a physical fight. You're an assassin, so you've had to assassinate a woman at least once, yes?"**

Sunshine,

I am flattered you have deemed me the "most interesting man in the world" :).

As to your question, I believe myself to be the bearer of at least one form of chivalry: I do not hurt women.

When I was a young boy, my mother taught me to be kind to the ladies of Italia. She taught me that all donne deserved respect, and it was the duty of a gentleman to give it to them. The value of a man, she told me, could be gauged by how he treats the women in his life.

And (though I would never tell my sister this), I feel women are in need of this special devotion. Men do not realize how… Frail the fairer sex can be at times. It is a gentleman's responsibility as the leader and sponsor of his household to watch after the females, as they can be easily manipulated and taken advantage of.

Now, before you accuse me of any form of sexism, I would like to make clear that I have known, and still know, many strong women in my life. My mother, may she rest in peace, was one such example. And Paola, the skillful matron who took me in after my family's murder and taught me patience.

Teodora, who guides the courtesans of Venezia through a religion only she understands, and Rosa, the only person in the world who can outrun me (excluding La Volpe, of course).

But, I must admit, there have been times when I have almost broken this code of courtliness.

Lucrezia Borgia, sister to the now-exiled Caesar of Roma; there was a girl I would have gladly slapped across the face. I came very close to doing so several times, in fact.

A few years back, when I infiltrated the Castel Sant'Angelo searching for Rodrigo Borgia and his son, I ran into her. She had imprisoned my ally, Caterina Sforza, and I needed to procure the countess' release. Lucrezia, however, was less than compliant.

In the end, I was forced to abduct her. The Borgia woman was vicious- she shoved her elbows into my gut, she stamped on my toes, plunged her fist into my face, and screamed like a banshee above it all.

So, why didn't I just ram her head against the wall and be done with it? Why didn't I cut her tongue out, like I'd threatened to do should she make a sound? I couldn't bring myself to.

Oh, I wanted to; that much was certain. But every time I tried…Every time my hand raised itself to strike her, I imagined the pained yelp that would fall out. I imagined her falling to the ground, clutching her cheek. And how would it all seem after that? A grown man, standing over a young woman whose eyes would brim with tears, defiant though they are, as she climbs unsteadily to her feet. What dominance would such cruelty give me? If anything, she would only hate me more after that.

I have always pictured myself as the better man. I have seen the way my enemies treat their females- Cesare himself abused his sister. Octavian de'Valois, a French general, once kidnapped the wife of one of my comrades in order to gain the upper hand in battle. How can I believe myself more refined than these men if I cannot stop myself from harming someone weaker than I am?

I hope I am explaining this well, Sunshine. You see, while I have been punched, slapped, elbowed, stepped on, kicked, and even knocked out by a few women, I have never fought back. And I am very proud of this fact.

It is through this trait that I can truly call myself a gentleman.

-0-

Yours,

Ezio Auditore


	20. Afterword

January 1st, 2012

Hey everyone,

It's the editor again. As you can all see, January first has rolled around, and Ask Ezio has come to a halt.

I want to thank all of you for all the questions (over 80!), and I'm real sorry if yours didn't get answered. They were appreciated just the same.

However, just because Ask Ezio is over doesn't mean there won't be a sequel. A POLL is being hosted on iguanablogger's profile (accessible through the link at the top of the page) to choose Ezio's successor. _Please _visit the poll and drop off your opinion! We're stuck in a tie right now, and we'll need all the tiebreakers we can get!

The POLL closes on Wednesday, January 4th. By January 7th, the winner will be announced and he or she will be asked to write an acknowledgement letter that will be placed in the foreword.

Just wanted to remind you. Once again, thank you all for participating!

-iguana

(Oh, and Ezio asked me to post this, too:

"To my dear readers,

Three months have passed ever so quickly. I wanted to express my gratitude and my pleasant surprise at having procured so many friends around the world. The questions you have asked me were amusing and entertaining to answer.

If you'll have me, it would be a pleasure to continue to answer your letters for a few more months. My editor has informed me that I posses a slot on the POLL ballot, and that if the readers desire to hear more from me, I can still be selected. This is an honor.

Once again, grazie mile. It has been fun, and I hope to participate in something like this again soon.

-Ezio Auditore.")


	21. Poll winner

January 4th, 2012

Alright, everyone!

The poll has closed, and the next Assassin's Creed character to pick up the quill is…

Altair ibn la Ahad!

Thank you all very much for voting and for participating in Ask Ezio. It has been a pleasure for all involved. Within the next week, Ask Altair should be public and can be found on iguanablogger's profile.

A foreword letter will be available there, as will further instructions on how to ask Altair questions and such.

Once again, thank you all for voting and have fun with the new guy!


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